Dangerous Love

by Ray Norman

  Later, as the discussion among the three of us continued and as Aboubacar was assisting with clearing the dinner table, I could tell he was taking in everything and was intrigued that Hélène and Hannah felt so strongly about the need to do something. In many ways I think this notion of concern for someone who had caused so much harm was foreign to him. But he is a compassionate and merciful man, and this concern of ours obviously struck a chord in him.

  Finally, after lengthy discussion, Hélène announced with an air of finality that we would have to visit Ali in the prison and take the matter from there. I then tried to explain to Hélène that he was, without a doubt, prisoner number one in Mauritania, and that it would be virtually impossible for even me to get approval to see him, much less take my wife along. Then Hannah, not missing a beat, interjected, “But I want to meet Mr. Ali too!” Her words silenced all of us. We stared at her for a moment, and finally I asked why she would want to meet the prisoner.

  “Because I just want to meet the man who tried to kill you, Daddy. Besides, if you and Mom are going to see him, I want to go too!” Exasperated, I tried to bring reason back into the conversation. I retorted that there were absolutely no plans to go see the prisoner, hoping desperately to put the whole matter to rest. But later that night, as Hélène and I lay in bed, she told me in no uncertain terms that I must at least try to get permission for us to see him. I was exhausted from the emotional journey of the day, as well as the lively household debate that evening. But I knew when Hélène was on to something that I should listen. So I reluctantly promised to at least make an inquiry, then rolled over and tried to figure out how I was going to calm the tumbled thoughts in my head and get myself to sleep.

  During the next couple of days, Hélène and Hannah continued to insist that we should try to get in to see Ali. I had hoped that within a day or two following the initial alarm this would subside, but I was mistaken. It was Hannah’s persistence that surprised me the most. I was careful not to reinforce this notion by raising the matter myself, as neither Hélène nor I wanted Hannah to feel that we had expectations that she should want to do this. But whenever Hannah brought up the subject—“Daddy, are we going to see the prisoner?”—I always gently prodded to better understand why she wanted to see him. She would usually just shrug and say, “Because I want to.” Hannah has always had a curiosity as large as the sky itself, especially about people, and so we just left it at that.

  Hélène continued to feel a sense of urgency, so around midweek I picked up the phone and made one of my routine calls to the director of National Security. After a few pleasantries I hesitantly told him I had an unusual request to make of him, and then asked if there was any chance my family and I would be able to get in to see Ali at the prison. There was a long silence on the end of the line, followed by a nervous chuckle.

  “Monsieur Norman, I am not sure you understand. This man is not an ordinary prisoner, and neither are the circumstances that surround his incarceration. I do not think this will be at all possible.” I knew the odds were impossibly stacked against such a request. I was well aware that the last thing the Mauritanian government wanted was any more troublesome publicity on the matter and that a visit to the prison by this American-French family would in all likelihood only attract the press. After a pause it seemed the director’s curiosity got the better of him and he inquired, “But why in the world would you want to meet with him?”

  My own reluctance in this whole matter was getting the better of me as well, especially since the director’s short and clear response reflected the seeming ridiculousness of such a request. So I sheepishly responded that it was actually my wife and daughter who wanted this meeting, and I was simply following their request. The director probably thought I had a screw loose somewhere. This was one of the highest ranking men in the government of an Islamic state, and here I was on the phone making a half hearted request on behalf of my wife and young daughter to meet with a man who at that time was probably the nation’s most notorious prisoner, and a man the government probably wished would simply disappear.

  But I stumbled forward anyway. “Well, you see, Monsieur le Directeur, this situation is tied to the healing and restoration process of my wife and daughter. Complex as it may seem, it would help them greatly to have a moment with the prisoner. Their purpose is not to accuse him or seek retribution, but rather to simply meet and understand better the man who brought such pain to their lives.” Again there was a long silence. I have little doubt the director had never heard anything like this. But he was an intelligent man, and he was obviously absorbing what I had rather falteringly tried to explain.

  “Well, Monsieur Norman, this is really a difficult request, and it is extremely unlikely we can make this happen, but given what you have said I will see what I can do.”

  We politely closed the conversation, but I saw that there was a sliver of a chance that this could happen, since I had obviously caught his attention. However, I also knew that if I did not persist with the request, it would be dismissed. So I picked up the phone again and called the head of security at the American embassy, a rather coarse and hard-edged man with a military and security background who had been involved in the case since the day of the shooting. I knew he had close contacts with the government’s office of National Security, and I thought perhaps he could exert some influence. He was just as astonished as the director at what he considered to be a ludicrous request. But since his job, at least in part, was to represent American interests in Mauritania, and since he knew I was a personal friend of the ambassador, he took my request seriously, although he too indicated this meeting would probably never happen.

  In the ensuing weeks, and often at Hélène’s urging, I repeatedly left messages at both the Office of National Security and the US embassy, just to let them know that we were still persisting in our request.

  The weeks and months passed by with little or no indication our request had been taken seriously. Life at home and within our World Vision programs was slowly returning to normal, although we all went through the motions of life with more caution than we had in years past. But our concern for Ali’s situation continued, and at home we found ourselves praying for him and his safety from time to time, as there was little else we could do.

  Then, late one morning, nearly three months after my first call to the director of National Security, his directeur-adjoint called to inform me that approval had been granted for us to see Ali in the prison. The only caveat was that the appointment was that day at 1:00 P.M. “Do you still want to meet with him?” was the final question. I stumbled out a surprised and hesitant yes, not knowing how this would go over with Hélène, much less Hannah, on such short notice. I had little doubt that our request had cycled through the highest echelons of the government and that the unexpected approval had probably come from the president himself. I learned later that staff members at the American embassy had also pushed the matter for us, crazy as some of them thought it was.

  I grabbed the phone again and called Hélène. She was as surprised as me but determined as ever to make this happen. We agreed that I should call the school and explain the situation to the headmistress so that we could pick up Hannah, should she still want to participate.

  When Hélène answered my phone call, she had been headed out to attend the small, monthly prayer meeting of mostly Protestant, expatriate women who met at the Catholic Church facilities across the street from our World Vision office. She told me she would go directly to the prayer meeting, tell her friends, and then meet me at the office within the hour. Hélène wanted to brief these women on what was happening so that they could be praying during our encounter. In the meantime I called Hannah’s school and told them we would be coming by shortly to have a brief word with Hannah and possibly take her with us.

  I had been instructed to meet some of the staff from the Office of National Security a little before 1:00 P.M., at which point staff from the US embassy would join us before we departe
d for the prison. It was a whirlwind moment, with little time to prepare our hearts, much less our thoughts. Hélène arrived at my office shortly; and after filling in Amrita (as well as receiving the welcomed assurance of her prayers), we jumped in the Land Cruiser and headed to Hannah’s school. Since the time was short, I left Hélène in the car and found Hannah already waiting for me in the headmistress’s office, a little wild-eyed but expectant.

  I led her to a quiet corner in the lobby and gently explained to her that we had suddenly been granted a meeting with the prisoner that afternoon, but under no circumstances was she expected to join us if she did not wish to do so. A part of me was hoping Hannah would decline, but I also knew that she would be terribly upset had we not told her of the opportunity and given her the chance to go. I should not have been surprised when she eagerly affirmed her desire to go. I stared at her for a moment and said, “Hannah, you do not have to do this. Mom and I can do this, and it will be perfectly okay if you choose to stay here. And we will be glad to fill you in when we get back.”

  “No, Dad, I really want to go.”

  “You are sure about this?”

  “Yes.”

  I gazed into her eyes for a long moment, trying to understand all that was going on in the head and heart of my young daughter, then resignedly said, “Okay then, let’s go.”

  We drove quickly to the nearby US embassy and met up in front of the complex with the group of officials from the Office of National Security and those from the embassy. I stepped out of our vehicle and greeted everyone briefly. The Mauritanian officials were clearly in charge, and I noticed that several of them, as well as one or two of the embassy officials, were discretely armed. Obviously a little put out with this whole affair and in a tone that oozed sarcasm, my crusty embassy acquaintance leaned toward me and said, “I hope this is going to make you and your family happy.” I thanked him for helping to make the meeting happen, which seemed to satisfy, at least in part, his apparent need for self-importance.

  The directeur-adjoint made it clear that we were to follow his vehicle, and after arriving at the prison, we were to follow his instructions explicitly at every step of the process. With the Mauritanians in front and the embassy vehicle following, our convoy was soon winding southward through the hot, dusty streets toward the central prison.

  We drove silently for a few minutes, each one in the vehicle busy and anxious with private thoughts about what would transpire shortly. But something about Hélène did not seem quite right. I glanced sideways and saw that she was sitting very primly, back erect, and staring straight ahead with hands folded in her lap. But under her folded hands on her lap was a plastic grocery bag filled with something. When I realized she was trying not to attract my attention, my focus soon zeroed in on the bag in her lap. She had noticed me staring at her as I drove, so I waited a moment, then inquired impassively about what was in the bag.

  “Oh, I just thought I would bring along a few things for Ali.”

  I was now intrigued. “What sort of things?”

  “Oh, just a few things I thought he could use.”

  “And what might they be?” I asked.

  She reluctantly opened the bag and pulled out a few items. “I brought him a towel and a bar of soap, as well as a few magazines.”

  I saw the towel and soap, but then asked if I could see what magazines she had included. With growing exasperation she pulled out the magazines, and I saw they included National Geographic and a few other innocuous titles. But as I was still quietly pondering her evident unease, I noticed there was something else in the bag. As our convoy continued winding through Nouakchott’s streets, and with Hannah intently watching the unfolding drama from the backseat, I asked, “Hélène, what else is in the bag?”

  “Oh, nothing really.”

  “Hélène, there is something else in the bag. What else are you hoping to give to the prisoner?”

  Soon Hélène let out a long, resigned sigh, and with a sheepish look on her face, she slowly pulled out the last item—a French Bible. I was thunderstruck!

  With my rattled nerves, I was trying desperately to keep the vehicle on the road and not attract unnecessary attention from others in our solemn convoy. I hissed, as if the whole of Mauritania were trying to listen in, “Hélène! We don’t even know if we’ll be allowed to give him a towel and soap, much less magazines. But a BIBLE! It is illegal to give any Mauritanian a Bible, and you think you are going to march into that prison and quietly slip a Bible to the prisoner! If the authorities find out, and they surely will, we will be locked up with him! You cannot do this.” She then threw a look at me that could have said I was the meanest person in the world.

  “But he is such a hopeless man, and he so desperately needs to know that there is hope for someone in his circumstances!”

  At that moment conflicting emotions surged through me, and I did not know whether to admire my wife for her incredible courage or scold her for her blatant foolishness. One thing was certain to me: I knew that I was neither as courageous nor as foolish as she. But this would simply not do. So, as Hannah continued to take it all in intently from her backseat perch, I begged Hélène to put the Bible away. And after a much-too-long period of silent contemplation, Hélène obediently slid the Bible from the sack on her lap just moments before our convoy rolled into the prison complex with a cloud of dust. My relief was almost unspeakable.

  Before any of us could gather our wits about us, the others were filing out of their vehicles and motioning us to join them. We stepped out of the vehicle into the large, open space in front of the central prison. With another reminder to follow the directeur-adjoint’s instructions, I took Hannah’s hand, and we were all soon plodding our way through the soft sand toward a large, formidable, and somewhat dilapidated-looking building complex encircled by a high wall. If one could imagine a building with cackling demons perched on its parapets, then surely this was one. It was no doubt one of their cherished strongholds in this land, and we were obviously about to set foot in their territory.

  Although it was still midday, with a stiflingly hot, desert sun overhead, the prison gave off an ominous aura of darkness as we approached. As we neared the large, dark, solid-metal gate, Hannah’s grasp on my hand tightened with each step—and with it my angst increased proportionally for her welfare. What were we doing, bringing our young daughter to such a place? Had we lost our minds? This was surely no place for a young girl. What seemed to be a grim smirk on the face of my embassy acquaintance as he glanced at our obvious and growing discomfort only served to reinforce my feelings of dread.

  A member of our group banged on the metal gate, and a small, sliding view-hole slid open, revealing only the eyes of the guard on the other side. Our identities and purpose were given, followed by a short exchange in Arabic. The set of eyes disappeared as the view-hole slid shut. I confess that part of me yearned to be turned away so that we could return to our vehicle and get back to the normal routines of life—or as normal as they could be in the western Sahara. As I was pondering this appealing possibility, the huge metal gate suddenly began rumbling open, but only just wide enough for us to pass through one person at a time.

  We filed across a dirty courtyard and were led by a turbaned guard to the dark doorway of the main building. As we were ushered in, out of the brilliant sunlight and into the dark, unlit interior, it took a moment for our eyes to adjust. But what struck my senses the most was not the sudden transition from light to dark; it was the stench—a stale odor of human sweat accentuated by the steamy heat that pervaded the building’s unkempt interior. I was never under the illusion that a visit to a prison in this part of the world would be a pleasant experience, because I had been in others. But even my own sensitivities, which I considered to be well-rounded from years of living in challenging environments, were shaken. We were only seeing the public side, and I had little doubt there were other dark holes in the far reaches of this building that few, except their unfortunate residents, e
ver saw.

  While my immediate concerns continued to be how my wife and daughter were taking this all in, my thoughts also turned to the many individuals who were relegated to conditions such as these for months and years of their lives. Granted, many were probably guilty of heinous crimes that called for justice and merited punishment. But even those individuals were created and loved by a merciful God, and how could a hole such as this provide the reform or hope so many of them surely needed? My heart ached from the sheer hopelessness and the aura of a dead-end chasm that this place exuded.

  The director of the prison met our group and led us down a long hallway and into a rectangular room. Off to the side near the middle of the room was a battered table, and at the end farthest from the entrance was an old, metal bed frame against the wall, with nothing but a bare, dirty, worn foam-rubber pad lying on top of the failing suspension. Hélène, Hannah, and I were instructed to take our seats on the edge of the bed.

  We were then told that the prisoner would be brought in momentarily and seated on a lone chair near the far entrance, and we would only be permitted a few minutes with him. At no point were we to leave our seats or approach the prisoner. But we would be permitted to address him from across the room. By this time the rest of our group had taken standing positions against the walls of the room, as there was virtually no other seating except for a chair at the table where the prison director sat surrounded by a handful of armed guards.

  As the three of us sat there waiting for Ali to be brought from his cell, there was a cacophony of discussions, shouts, and orders going on in the now hot and crowded room. The noise grew over the next five minutes until there was a commotion near the entrance door, and a disheveled and confused-looking Ali was quickly ushered in and seated in the lone chair across the room. As soon as he took in his new surroundings and saw us seated at the far end, his face filled with shock and dismay. He had obviously not been briefed on the meeting, and his discomfort showed. He soon begged a cigarette off a nearby guard and, once it was lit, settled into what appeared to me to be a defensive posture. Somehow I had imagined that he would have at least been informed about our visit and our intentions, which did not include accusation or retribution. But one glance at him told me this was exactly what he was expecting.